The Middle of Nowhere c-5

by Paul B. Thompson

  Hume went to the bar. His soldierly bearing and infantryman’s gait marked him for what he was. He spoke briefly with the barkeep, a centaur no less, who rebuffed his queries about warriors seeking work.

  “You’ll hire no blades today,” said the centaur, polishing the bar with a filthy cloth. “Everyone who can wield a knife, from the lordly born to the worst scum in Robann, has gone to the Brotherhood of Quen.”

  Malek and Nils approached. “Why have they gone?” asked Malek.

  The centaur laughed, sounding not surprisingly like a horse neighing. “For gold, dirt-digger! Some fool killed the son of the gang’s chief, and a price of a thousand gold pieces has been laid on the killer’s head!”

  “That’s bad,” Hume admitted.

  “Word’s gone ’round about you and your friends, too,” added the centaur. “Farmers hiring blades for cheap.” He neighed again sarcastically. “Nobody’s left here but the general.”

  Nils looked around for a well-appointed officer, but he saw none. “General?”

  “Want to meet him?”

  There were no other prospects, so Malek and Nils agreed. Leathery face split in a gap-toothed grin, the centaur came out from behind the bar and beckoned the farmers to follow.

  The Shield and Saber’s great room was really two rooms, a large and a small, joined at right angles. In the smaller extension, which held booths and small, square tables, a few isolated souls lingered. Judging by their gray hair and bleary expressions, they were too old, too sick, or too lost in drink to take interest in a manhunt.

  The centaur stopped by a back booth. He rapped his hairy knuckles on the headboard. “Hey, general! Wake up! You have visitors!”

  “I can pay my bill,” groaned a voice on the other side of the partition.

  “That I know, or you’d be in the street now!”

  Braying, the centaur left them.

  “This is a fool’s errand,” grunted Hume.

  Malek peeked around the partition.

  Seated inside the booth was an older man, near Caeta’s age. Gray-bearded, his long hair was lank and matted. He wore the moldering remnants of a fine uniform. Brass buttons, where not missing, had turned green from neglect.

  The old soldier turned red-rimmed eyes toward Malek. “What do you want, stranger?”

  “Are you a general?” asked the farmer.

  “I was. Once.” Three wine bottles, one lying on its side, were strewn about the table. The old man reeked of sour wine and unwashed clothes.

  Malek waved Hume and his brother forward. “May we speak to you, General?”

  The general shrugged.

  The three slid onto the bench across from the old man. He studied them, squinting against a cloud of age and drink.

  “You’re not human,” he said to Hume. “What are you, half-ogre?”

  “That’s not important,” Malek said firmly. “Hume is in our employ.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Defending these good people and their home from raiders,” Hume replied stiffly.

  “Huh.” The general reached for the nearest bottle. Failing to find a cup, he drank directly from it.

  “This is a waste of time,” Hume muttered.

  “Mind your tongue!” the general said. “You’re in the presence of Howland uth Ungen, Order of the Rose, and Knight of Solamnia!” He missed the edge of the table with the bottle, and it fell into his lap.

  “I’m in the presence of a drunken fool,” snarled Hume.

  “Yes, I’m drunk! I’ve been drunk for the past four years! You’d be too if you’d seen what I’ve seen, done what I’ve done … lost what I’ve lost.”

  “We need an experienced commander,” Malek pressed on, heedless. “With our people and the warriors we’ve hired, we have some chance against the bandits, but we need a real commander to lead us! Someone with experience in the field.”

  Howland’s eyes fluttered and closed. He began to snore.

  Hume got up, his face a mask of stone. “This one is a liar as well as a drunkard. No Knight of the Rose would sink so low.”

  The centaur barkeep returned. “The last coin you gave me was tainted, general! It had more lead in it than gold!” He saw Howland’s head lolling and spat. “Get out, you cheat! Sleep it off somewhere else!”

  He dragged the unresisting man out and stood him up against the booth wall. Rifling through the pockets and pouches in Howland’s clothing, he found no more money. Cursing, he flung the old man to the floor.

  “The boss will take it out of my hide if the receipts are short tonight!” Glancing into the booth, he saw a gleam of metal.

  “Ah!” Nestled in the corner of the booth was a sword, scabbard, and belt. It was a fine, straight weapon, plainly finished, but it was real steel.

  “I’ll just keep this!” said the centaur, grinning.

  “Wait.” Hume’s broad hand clamped down on the centaur’s arm. “You can’t take a man’s sword. No matter how low he’s fallen, a warrior’s sword is his soul.”

  “Put it in a poem!” The barkeep tried to wrench his arm free but found Hume’s grasp too strong. “You want trouble? The Iron Gang rules this inn. One word from me, and the three of you will be swinging from their parapet by sunset.”

  “Let go, Hume,” Malek said. The proud thane did so reluctantly. The centaur was about to drag Howland out by his heels when Hume spoke again.

  “How much does he owe?”

  “Eh?”

  “Sir Howland’s bill-how much?”

  The centaur’s bristling brows twitched. “Two gold.”

  “You said only one was tainted.”

  “One’s for my trouble-and silence.”

  Hume drew his short sword. Though he drew underhand, with his grip reversed so as to keep the point down, the centaur blundered back, upsetting a pair of chairs.

  “Peace!” said Hume. “I was only going to offer my own blade in payment for the bill.”

  Cautiously, the centaur reached out to take Hume’s weapon. He licked the blade and plunked it with his finger.

  “Not steel,” he muttered. “Wrought iron, ten years old. Worth two, maybe three gold.”

  He weighed the easy prize of Hume’s sword against Howland’s better blade. Good sense prevailed, or perhaps it was the hard glint in Hume’s eye. The centaur flung Howland’s sword to Malek.

  “Take it, and begone! Cheaters are not welcome in the Shield and Saber!”

  Boosting the unconscious man between them, Malek and Nils carried Howland out. Hume preceded them, carrying the general’s sword with reverence.

  Back at the stable, there was much explaining to be done. Caeta told her comrades about Amergin and the duel. Malek told them about the manhunt.

  “He killed the son of the chief of the gang!” Malek said worriedly. “If he’s found here, our lives won’t be worth a field of rocks!”

  “Calm yourself,” Caeta urged. “Amergin is fantastic with his sling, and a cooler head I’ve never seen. He’s agreed to help us if we get him out of town safely. Will you forsake a bargain already struck?”

  Malek was tempted, but fourteen days had passed already. Sixteen more, and Rakell would return to Nowhere for another twenty villagers. Worse, there was no way to know how the farmers already taken, including Laila, were faring.

  “Very well. We’ll keep your bargain, Caeta.”

  Carver squatted by the still-snoring Howland. He sniffed and made a face. “Who’s the rosebud?”

  “His name’s Howland uth Ungen. He’s a Knight of Solamnia and a general.”

  “He needs a bath,” Carver observed.

  Malek frowned. “Why is that kender still here?”

  “Because I haven’t killed him yet,” Raika said. Carver thought she was joking.

  Caeta knelt by Howland. She turned his head this way and that then lifted his hands one by one, examining them with care. She felt his legs and kneaded his belly a few times.

  “What’s she doing?” asked Khorr.
>
  “Caeta’s the best stock breeder in the village,” Nils replied. “I’ve seen her do that to calves. She’s checking to see if he’s sound.”

  “He is,” she said, arranging Howland’s arms at his side. “He’s not been on the bottle too long.” Rising, she added, “You say he was a general? We need a general. We can’t be too choosy.”

  “We know nothing about him,” sputtered Wilf. “For all we know, he could be a former cobbler or a tailor.”

  “Scars.”

  The male farmers looked puzzled. “What scars?”

  “His arms have many scars, like so.” She made parallel slashes with her hand up one arm. “Sword cuts, old ones. He has healed wounds on the front of both legs.”

  “Lance wounds received by a man on horseback,” Hume said admiringly.

  “He’s got almost all his teeth, too.”

  “Which means what?” said Raika. Seated with her back against the stable wall, she watched them intently as they clustered around the sleeping Howland.

  “He’s eaten well all his life. That and his recovered injuries means he’s had a healer’s care. I would also wager he’s worn a helmet most of his life, as his teeth are not broken out, and his face isn’t marred.”

  “Splendid!” Carver cried, clapping his hands. He flopped on the straw. “Do me next. Tell me what my life has been!”

  Caeta ignored him. “Shall we keep this old dog? He’s worn out, but a wise old hound is a better hunter than the spryest pup.”

  It was getting dark. Out in the streets of Robann, armed mobs were searching for Amergin. Other, smaller bands were hunting Khorr. Time and the scant welcome the town afforded was running out.

  “Put the question to him when he wakes,” said Malek. “That’s all we can do.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Exit,Pursued

  No one slept that night. The farmers and their hired fighters kept to the stable, but there were periodic alarms as bands of bounty hunters stormed in, searching for Amergin. Khorr was still being sought by vengeance-seekers too. Since it would arouse suspicion for all of them to hide, Hume, Raika, and the farmers concentrated on keeping the Kagonesti and the minotaur out of sight. But how to hide a seven foot tall bull-man?

  Amergin they secreted under the floor of the loft. While they wrangled about burying Khorr in dung or under a heap of hay, Carver solved the problem neatly. He took the hulking poet by the hand and led him to a stall between two cows.

  “Kneel down,” said the kender.

  Khorr went down on his knees. The kender filled the stall around the minotaur’s lower body with loose hay, then stood back to admire the effect.

  “Not a word,” he cautioned, “no matter what you hear! Keep your eyes down. Yes, like that. Perfect!”

  He swaggered back to the arguing companions. Sir Howland, the drunken Knight, was snoring, but the others (save Amergin) stood in circle, loudly debating various schemes.

  “Cut a hole in the wall, and have Khorr put his head through it,” Raika suggested. “If anybody asks, we tell ’em he’s a trophy.”

  “No, no!” said Nils. “Anyone can tell the difference between a stuffed head and a live one!”

  “Have you a better idea?” said the Saifhumi woman belligerently.

  “Hello! Hello!” called Carver. “I’ve solved the problem.”

  Just then (for the fourth time that night) a party of vigilantes burst into the barn. Seeing Malek and the rest, the leader of the gang said, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Before the frightened farmers could speak, Hume growled, “Same as you: hunting for the one who killed the Quen chief’s son.”

  “It’s been half a day, and nobody’s found him yet,” the vigilantes’ leader replied. He was a coarse, sallow-looking fellow with lank brown hair. Behind him was a mixed band of goblins and similarly seedy humans.

  “Maybe he’s left Robann,” said Wilf.

  “Ain’t possible. The Brotherhood’s got trackers out in all directions. They ain’t picked up nothing.” Shifting his torch to his left hand and lowering his right to the hilt of his sword, he added, “The rat must still be here.”

  Raika said, “Well, we haven’t got him. If we did, we wouldn’t be standing here jawing with you, sunshine.”

  The gang leader’s eyes narrowed. “Then you won’t mind if we search the place ourselves?”

  Raika all but yawned. “Suit yourself, boys.”

  Malek and the farmers looked alarmed, but Raika, Hume, and Carver all managed a disinterested facade. One of the goblins stood over Sir Howland, prodding him with the handle of his pitchfork.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Not an elf. Ears not pointy, see?” Raika leaned against a post and clasped her hands behind her head. “Don’t you even know what a Kagonesti looks like?”

  The vigilantes poked and prodded around the big barn, finding nothing but a few random chickens nesting in the straw. Two of the goblins fell to chasing a fat white hen until their boss stormed over and cracked them on the head with his knout.

  The humans in his group climbed into the loft. Hume and Raika exchanged a look. Carver lay on his back and made moo-ing noises.

  Malek could hear the men clomping around, thrusting spears into the loose hay. He prayed the board covering Amergin’s hiding place would not be dislodged by their probing.

  A scraggly fellow with stringy hair and a wisp of a beard stuck his head over the loft rail and said, “Nothing up here, Nub.”

  “Then get down! We got plenty more places to check!”

  Men and goblins filed out. The leader, Nub, was the last. Screwing up his face as though he smelled something bad, he swept the barn with his eyes one last time before departing then ducked out.

  Caeta sighed deeply. “Where’s Khorr?”

  Carver made more cattle sounds then laughed. Arching his back, he sprang to his feet like an acrobat.

  “As my old Uncle Trapspringer used to say, the best place to hide something is under the seeker’s nose!”

  He strolled to the cow stalls and stood in front of one, gesturing to the horned head above him. “Speak, Khorr!”

  “What shall I say?” The minotaur opened the stall door and stepped out.

  The kender had missed Khorr by two stalls. He covered his error with a high-pitched laugh.

  “I’m so clever I even fool myself!”

  Malek nodded. “Maybe the kender will turn out to be useful after all.”

  Howland uth Ungen snorted, choked, and sat up. “Wine!” he croaked. “Give me wine!”

  Malek, Nils, Caeta, and Wilf slowly circled around him. Holding his head in his hands, the fallen knight repeated his plea.

  Malek squatted and offered him the neck of his waterskin. Howland seized it in both hands and drank greedily.

  “Is this old souse really any good to us?” Wilf murmured.

  Lowering the leather bag with a gasp, Howland said, “Good enough even to whip you clod-hoppers into fighting shape!”

  Malek said, “Do you remember us?”

  “I remember,” Howland said gruffly. He wiped his crusted lip with the back of his hand. “How many warriors have you got, so far?”

  “Five, counting you.”

  “Six!” Carver said brightly. “Don’t forget me!”

  Malek grimaced. “Six, it seems.”

  “Help me up.” Howland held out his hands to Nils and Malek. They dragged him upright. “All right, all right. Might as well get down to business. All of you, line up.”

  No one moved.

  “I said line up! Better you learn one thing first-when I give an order, you do it!”

  Awkwardly, they sorted themselves into a single line facing the Knight. With Khorr at one end and Carver at the other, they made a strange-looking company.

  “Tcha!” Howland snapped. “What a command!” He stood in front of the minotaur, fists on his hips. “You’re big enough, I’ll grant. Have you any skills?”

  “I’ve me
morized all six thousand lines of The Rage of Captain Edzi,” said Khorr.

  Howland squeezed his bloodshot eyes shut. “Any fighting skills?”

  “I’m a good wrestler.”

  “A wrestler. I see. We’ll just have to ask the brigands to come close enough for you to hug them, won’t we?”

  Howland moved down the line to Hume. “You look like a soldier.”

  “Yes, sir. I am Hume nar Fanac, by birth thane to the mighty Khan of Khur.”

  “In what were you trained?”

  “Pike and halberd, sir.”

  Howland nodded. “Any archery?”

  “No, sir.”

  The knight moved on to Raika.

  “Before you ask, I’m a sailor, not a warrior,” she said dryly.

  “You’re no stranger to swords, I fancy.”

  She shrugged. “The sea is a dangerous place.”

  Howland walked off a short way. A rake and a pitchfork leaned against one of the inner stalls. Taking one in each hand, he went back to Raika. Without warning, he flung the pitchfork sideways at her. She caught it, glaring.

  “Are we going to pitch hay?” she said.

  “You pose too much, woman, and you’re too free with your mouth. Let’s see what you can do.”

  Raika grinned. “Any time, old man.”

  Caeta stepped out of line to protest. Howland was hung-over, dehydrated, thirty years older than Raika, and six inches shorter. “I don’t want our new general injured before he has the chance to train us.”

  “Get back in your place!” Howland snapped.

  He drew back a few steps and beckoned Raika toward him. As she advanced, he swiftly thrust the handle of his rake between her ankles, tripping her. Before Raika knew it, she was flat on her belly, and Howland had the head of the rake pressed against the back of her neck.

  “Got you,” he said.

  “Yeah, quite a coup for you, old man. Trip me when I’m not looking!”

  “Do you think war has polite rules?”

  He let her up. She crouched low, the tines of her pitchfork level with Howland’s chest. His grimy brigandine would not keep out those sharp iron points.

  “Ha!” Raika jabbed hard.